


Putting on the Ritz

by R00bs_Teacup



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Ficlet, Fluff, Multi, One Shot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-24
Updated: 2017-04-24
Packaged: 2018-10-23 13:06:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,534
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10719921
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/R00bs_Teacup/pseuds/R00bs_Teacup
Summary: What on earth are Porthos and Aramis getting ready for? Is it REALLY just a trip to the supermarket?





	Putting on the Ritz

**Author's Note:**

  * For [CanadianGarrison](https://archiveofourown.org/users/CanadianGarrison/gifts).



> For Canadian Garrison because naked thighs

Aramis takes the longest to get ready. Athos is quickest, he just throws on whatever. Porthos is a bit of an anomaly, because he can be ready in three seconds flat but he can also take hours and hours and hours until even Aramis is bored. Tonight Athos isn’t getting ready (he doesn’t know what anyone’s getting ready for either and is agitated about it, and very grouchy), Aramis is still entirely naked, and Porthos is wandering about in a t-shirt dress and not much else, hair damp, skin damp, eating strawberries and not getting much further. Aramis is following him around trying to get him still and in one place, and Porthos keeps sneaking away and sneaking up behind Aramis so he can watch Aramis’s muscular arse as he sashays around looking for Porthos. Athos appears in doorways now and then to ask wordlessly what they’re up to and then vanishing again with a grumpy flounce. He’s still in trackies.

“Porthos! Sit!” Aramis says, finally getting Porthos in the kitchen, spinning on him and catching Porthos with a strawberry between his teeth. Porthos makes a startled noise and Aramis leans forward to bite the strawberry, stealing it.

“Hey,” Porthos says plaintively, slumping on a chair sadly.

Aramis sits on his bare knees before he can escape again, and demands that Athos fetch his kit. Stat. Athos does so grudgingly and Aramis while he waits feeds Porthos strawberries to keep him happy. Porthos winks at him when Athos grouches back in. Their antics are quite distracting. Porthos hoiks Aramis higher so he’s on Porthos’s thighs, the bottom of his dress against Aramis’s skin. Aramis wriggles and tugs the table so he can set out his things. He does Porthos’s hair first, drying it a bit with a towel and plaiting it. It’s halfway down his back now, when it’s wet and heavy and straight-ish. Aramis also trims and styles Porthos’s beard and moustache. Next he uses a wipe to clean away the strawberry residue. Athos perches on the table to watch.

“What do you want?” Aramis asks.

“A kiss,” Porthos says, promptly, as he always does, hands kneading Aramis’s thighs.

“Stop, or we’ll have to start all over again,” Aramis scolds, but gives him his kiss, as always. “Silver shiny?”

“I like silver shiny,” Porthos agrees, fluttering his eyes shut.

Aramis applies everything carefully, making his strokes soft and gentle. He uses foundation and a bit of shimmer to make Porthos a bit sparkly how he likes. Then he does a little bit of contouring to draw attention to Porthos’s wonderful bone-structure. He hum as he works, holding Porthos’s chin and crooning, whispering compliments. Porthos sits still and quiet, holding Aramis’s hip loosely, smiling. Aramis does silver eye shadow with a bit of pale grey-blue, and some glitter, mascarra.

“You have such thick eyelashes,” Aramis says, sitting back to admire. Porthos tugs him closer again and kisses him. “Messing up my work.”

“Shh,” Porthos says, and kisses him again.

“Do you want lips?”

“Yep,” Porthos says.

“K. I’ll do your eyebrows first though. You look like you have a hedge on your face.”

Porthos shoves him off for that and there’s a break in proceedings while Aramis runs away cackling and Porthos chases him. Athos fetches them both back, because he likes watching. And he thinks he’s Sherlock Holmes and will work out what they’re doing by watching and sneakily eavesdropping. Aramis bites his lip to stifle his amusement and Porthos winks again, beaming. Aramis does a bit of touching up and then hums, holding up lipsticks to Porthos. Porthos has worn most of them before, but this way Athos can make remarks about each and feel like he’s making choices.

“Can you do like a black flick?” Porthos asks. “On my eye.”

“Can do,” Aramis says, abandoning lipstick and redoing Porthos’s eyes so he has a thick, neat line across the top, before the silver and glittery.

He does a bit of smokiness to hide the bags Porthos refuses to acknowledge. And gets his bum pinched in thanks. Aramis does the lipstick thing again until Porthos gets bored and snatches the first one to hand. It’s green. Aramis works with it. He does light to dark, edging Porthos’s lips the same colour as his beard and moustache. Porthos ruins it by lunging and kissing Aramis again, and Aramis has to redo it and put sealer over. Aramis slips the lipsticks he’s used into Porthos’s pockets. He’ll need to do touch ups without fail, Porthos is too uncareful about eating and kissing.

“Ath, go put proper clothes on,” Porthos says.

“Why?” Athos asks, trying to sound uncaring but actually coming across eager.

“I want to go to Tesco, and you can drive, I can’t be arsed to walk,” Porthos says.

He gives Aramis’s thigh a fond smack and Aramis gets up. Porthos embraces him absently and pads away to get underwear and socks on. Athos grumbles and asks endless questions but eventually gives in and supposes Aramis and Porthos were just putting on Porthos’s face for the supermarket. They’ve done it for less. He puts on jeans and a shirt and ties his hair back at Porthos’s insistence, and then goes grouchily down to the car. Once they’re gone, with a last wink from Porthos and an excited bounce, Aramis whirls around the flat getting himself and it ready, pulling things out of cupboards and from hiding places. He leaves the door on the latch and people trickle in, tiptoeing around and setting up with Aramis, everyone buzzing with excitement and gleeful expectation.

Porthos takes as long as he can as Tesco, which is pretty long him being him. Athos lets him trail up and down the aisle and pick and choose everything with infinite care, lets him wander around the Tesco home section and pick out make up and jewlery and then put everything back and start over. Eventually, though, Athos loses patience and heads to the tills while Porthos is contemplating which ice cream he wants. Porthos takes his time deciding and then goes to pay for the ice cream. Athos is waiting on a seat beyond the counters. Porthos adds the ice cream to the bag.

“Hold on,” Athos says, looking up at Porthos with a smile. Porthos gives a bemused little headshake and smiles back, stroking Athos’s cheek. “Hand.”

Porthos holds out his right hand, expecting Athos wants a yank up to his feet. Athos caresses his wrist, though, and turns his hand over, pressing a kiss to his palm, to the pad of his hand. Then he closes a bracelet there, one Porthos hadn’t even thought of. It’s blue and gold. Athos presses a kiss to it then gets abruptly to his feet and stalks away. He has to come back to get the bags and to fetch Porthos, who’s just standing beaming at his own wrist. Athos tows him back to the car by the elbow. Porthos pushes him gently against the boot when Athos has put the bags in there and kisses him, gently, careful of his make up for once. He needs it to still be good when they get back. Porthos texts Aramis while Athos is dazed from kisses.

Athos carries the bags up the stairs, but then Porthos takes them off him and shoulders him so he’s stood right in the centre of the door, Porthos’s arms bracketing him, Porthos’s body warm at his back. Porthos gives the door a push and Athos opens his mouth to ask about it being opened, but before he can the room is full of people and shouting and party poppers going off and Athos is very glad to be encompassed by Porthos. He gapes around at his busy flat, the smiling laughing people, all drinking. Aramis is stood in the middle beaming widely, arms open. Porthos shuffles them inside and shuts the door.

“Surprise,” Porthos says.

“Uh-huh,” Athos says, and takes the shopping, going to the kitchen to put it away.

He makes his way to Aramis, when people seem to not be staring at him anymore but are happily drinking and chatting again. Aramis, touching up Porthos’s lips, smiles at Athos and wraps him in an arm, pulling him into the cluster of him and Porthos. Athos looks bewildered, but not cross, so they both beam at him.

“Why are all these people in my house?” Athos whispers. “Whose party is this?”

“Yours!” Aramis says, as Porthos bellows with laughter.

“Happy birthday,” Porthos says, kissing Athos’s cheek and pressing a glass of brandy into his hand.

“Oh,” Athos says, looking around, still bewildered. “For me?”

“Yes,” Aramis says. “Look, Constance is here, and d’Artagnan, and Anne, and Treville. Your friends.”

“People from work,” Porthos says, pointing to a corner.

“People from that weird voluntary thing you do,” Aramis says, pointing to another group.

“Oh,” Athos says, again, lips twitching a bit. “So that’s why you were putting on Porthos’s face.”

“Didn’t guess, Sherlock?” Porthos says. “Come on, hang on my arm and lets do the rounds. We look fabulous, let’s not waste it.”

Athos takes Porthos’s arm, and Aramis’s arm, and beams around at their company.


End file.
